Lean over to scoop up your book and settle back, feet tucked underneath your folded hips and bent knees. A turn to the first page says, I’m not talking unless you see the cover of my book and cannot resist a comment or a sigh, a wanting for the share the feelings evoked when reading the same lines.

Prop yourself up, feet on the stool, face to the fire. Rest your head against the cradle of the formal but worn fabric of one of the best seats in the house. Lean an ear to the material, gently begin to close the eyes before someone rustles bags or jackets nearby . The instinctual shimmy into the corner of the seat to start that peaceful doze is not interrupted so much as acknowledged, appreciated, approved by someone putting the same effort into settling into the matching wingback.

In the other side of the shop, the little tables are glowing, the backlight of screens and the vibration of cells tells everyone that things are happening in the world. Privacy is a necessity but few feel an imposition from nods about the news, chats filled with How are you answered in white lies like Fine. Sitting up tall in the seats with a mug and a mind, lets ideas and keys make a difference, somewhere, not there, but somewhere outside.

I’ve got a morning of java, an outlet, an eye. I’m plugged in, I’m checked out, but in this place there’s no shame.

Like this:

When forced to make our own sunshine on these budding spring mornings, on these days when my plan has been unplanned by some heavy hand who clearly didn’t have coffee, I warm up, raise my cup, and with my warming hands greet the day with a smile before i even open my eyes.

Accept my gratitude for the day; it could be worse, so much worse. I’ve got no time on my side, just another lifetime, really. Who learns enough in the first 40 to forgo the last? It took a breath of time to get here, to learn who i am at my core. Who am i to reject 40 more?

I pull in my friends, pull them in close: What can you you share with me to bring me peace?

I rally when the sun sets, try to hold on to the days, so much promise and learning and laughter, i hate to let the hours go to sleep.

I drag myself through the evening, soaking in the wisdom i crave; words, adventure, wise men and my gut. What is not for me, is. I embrace them, thigh to thigh, and leap out of my comfort zone thinking this is the way to prove my openness.

Selfish learning, it calls me. I respond freely, thinking later. I cannot shake my obligation to my self. Army men and wild boys, are these my only mirrors?

Having taken the easy route, taken, more than my share, fairly, but unfair only to me, until today- when i toss the tables, trash the protocol, embrace the unknown. When was it I agreed to be managed by the common calendar, the weekly appointment book, the rules of the day contrasting the desires invading my nights?

Railing against the reality, i die a little bit each time i am like any other searching soul… and defiantly rise up each morn, sworn, to my own path until those little reminders of reality find their way into my vision…the backpacks in the front entry, the taxes waiting to be picked up, the sick friend, the errand to the pharmacy, the conscripted grocery run and regurgitated list, the stoic presence at each cause.

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She lies in his bed, bathrobe thrown open, head back, arms outstretched and creates, embraces and memorizes every last opportunity.

My hands are warming on a fresh cup of coffee. Just holding the cup keeps my hands busy, steadies me. When there’s no one warm under the covers, one takes coffee to bed.

Without the java, my fingertips roam over my wrists and palms and knuckles, tenderly touching the dip between each finger where his hands were laced with mine. My thinking pauses, lingering and laughing at the antics of my own wanting, remembering the sweat on his shoulders and back, and my palms on the headboard in some crazy bracing yoga pose!

Without the steaming brew anchoring me to the present, I will repeatedly touch and follow the long line from ear to shoulder, find my fingers running through my own hair, silently pushing it off my forehead, tucking it behind my ear like his did when he wanted to see my face, the bend of my neck, the muscles of my back, as he looked down at me kneeling on the new sheets.

Dressing for work, physical memories are carved into my muscles. I walk shoulders back, hips thrust forward, my sore limbs and calves serve as witness to my evening workout. The pounding in my head spins the rhythms, tries to articulate the rhymes, sets a pace for those sweet sounds of encouragement, notes the unintentional interruptions escaping from my throat when someplace inside releases those soft guttural accepting sounds.

The evening is crawling back through my mind, dragging distant proof to the surface, showing me how far away my body can take my mind.